The dead hathran's ornate robes were singed and torn, her mask split down its length by a charred crack, the face beneath still hidden in death. Beside her, in pieces, lay her whip-a weapon that marked the hathran as much as the axe marked her fang. Thaena gathered these as she prayed and swore to make right what had gone so horribly wrong. Bastun quietly echoed that oath, though he wondered how he might go about doing what had to be done.
Anxious, his eyes crawled across the walls, imagining the chambers and corridors and ruin that separated him from one of the key components in Shandaular's destruction. The Breath was buried, of that he was sure. Finding its grave would be a matter of memory and luck. He shuddered at the thought of it in Creel hands.
Wind and pale morning light heralded the entrance of Anilya and her warriors. Ohriman scowled at the scene that greeted them, but Anilya's eyes found Bastun first, and again he sensed the mind of a kindred spirit. Kneeling, he stole away from her gaze to study more closely the body of a nearby warrior. He listened as she ordered her men to help secure the hall.
The body was unmarked save for a few shallow gashes along the arms and neck. No blood had flowed from the wounds. In fact he could see no sign of blood anywhere. The cuts were jagged and puckered, their edges a pale white. He resisted the urge to inspect them further. Eyes followed his every movement and he did not wish to attract any more attention than he already had.
He watched Thaena, quiet and solemn, wanting to sit beside her, to tell her of his fears and what needed to be done, but he also feared his own motives for doing so. To confide in her could revive whatever sense of trust had been lost, but it could also push them even farther apart and endanger her and all who'd accompanied them to the Shield. There was also the durthan to consider, and the odd truce the two had forged. In the end, it didn't matter-the oath of secrecy he had given to
Keffrass contained no exceptions, no conditions under which he might impart his knowledge to another unless it were a fellow vremyonni.
Thaena glanced up at him, torchlight reflecting in the dampness of her eyes, and he felt himself break. He stepped forward, his heart racing. The thought of speaking to her filled him with dread. He hesitated, torn between duty and hope.
Deliberating, he looked up as Duras approached from behind the ethran. Releasing a held breath, Bastun felt relieved for the brief reprieve and watched. The tall warrior laid a hand upon Thaena's shoulder. She slowly stood and they embraced one another.
Duras rested his cheek upon her hair as she pressed closer to him.
"Lady Ethran," he said. "Guardian," she replied.
Guardian. The word struck Bastun in the chest and he found himself speechless, his mind clear save for the image of his old friends in an embrace that spoke of far more than friendship. The bond between one of the wychlaren and her chosen guardian was unbreakable, a relationship of tale and song. The girl-nay, the woman-he had known, had thought about since that cold, rainy day of Ulsera's funeral, was gone. He shook his head, gritting his teeth as he corrected himself-she had never existed, not the way he had imagined her. Despite all, he found himself smiling, amused at himself and the boiling rage that churned within him. The heavy years rested upon his shoulders again, heavier for the realization that came over him.
The Breath waited for him somewhere within the Shield, and he needed to begin his search. The Rashemi could deal with the Nar and watch the durthan. He had to make sure the Shield and its secret were safe and secure, and he had to do it in the manner to which he had become accustomed. Alone.
Duras and Thaena shared a quiet look before parting.
As he managed his emotions toward more useful purposes, Bastun knelt and looked again at the body of the dead warrior, at the sightless eyes. He needed no hathran ritual to exile himself and had no intention of waiting for another to arrive. His countrymen had no want or need of his presence, though he chuckled to think of their talk once he was gone.
Even now Syrolf was planting poison in the ears of some of the others. Warriors looked from the dead to the vremyonni and made the signs, the whispers against the evil and misfortune that had plagued them. Bastun met their eyes, each one in turn, and burned those faces into his memory.
This is what I leave, he thought. This is what is left for me here.
Duras gathered several warriors to him, including the ever-watchful Syrolf. More than a few still cast glances at Bastun. He tensed, wondering if his old friend had finally taken to SyrolPs suspicions, but Duras motioned the warriors toward the western doorway. The group turned and nodded solemnly to Thaena who returned the gesture as they made their way out of the hall.
Bastun stood and made his way to a column at the far end of the chamber. Arcane symbols lined the tops of each column and the portal-like arches between them. The reminder of the portal kept his gaze sweeping through the hall as faded maps scrolled through his mind. There ought to be another door…
Leaning against the column, Bastun edged slowly toward the wall until he found a spot of shadow. He paused there as he contemplated what he was about to do. Anilya approached Thaena slowly, looking once toward Bastun and joining the ethran beside the body of the hathran. The pair spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially, and he felt a flash of alarm at the sight.
He felt his window of opportunity closing. Duras would not be gone long, and Bastun knew he could not escape notice forever. Struggling with the decision for a moment he cursed and slipped into the shadow, leaving his friends to their choices. He had his own to deal with.
His hand found the edge of a hidden space, cleverly concealed by the column, and he slid through the gap into a dark, narrow passage. Listening, he made sure his absence was not noticed before feeling his way down the corridor. He followed the wall for several paces, sliding his hands along the icy stone. His heart raced, though he couldn't help but taste freedom on the cold air.
Stiff cobwebs encrusted with frost and dust broke and fell as he passed. The hidden passage seemed to extend forever into the dark. Angling downward as he went, he tried to maintain his position on the map in his mind, but without proper measurements he could not be exactly sure of where he was. His hand brushed against the wall and he pulled away, feeling something cold squirm beneath his glove.
Falling back, he summoned a pale light to the top of his staff. It caught the trailing edge of an unidentifiable shadow disappearing into the black. The sensation of being watched crawled over him.
There were warded places in the Shield, protected against the strange hauntings that frequented the old fortress-this was not one of them. Nor was he likely to find many havens in the deeper corridors he sought.
Forging on more carefully, he held the light high and avoided touching the walls. The passage opened behind another column and he stepped into a larger hallway. Looking left and right he saw nothing but more ice and dust. Thin light leaked in through tall windows lining the corridor. A winter morning dawned over the Shield. Ice, snow, and stone walls were all that he could see-a world of silence, a ghost of time.
The back of Bastun's neck prickled and he spun. The hall was as empty as before, though the silence was broken by the faint sound of breathing. A cold breeze blew through the window, whistling slightly and stirring the hem of his cloak. Unnerved, he walked south along the corridor, seeking the path to the library he knew should be somewhere close by.
The breathing grew louder. He held his staff tightly, walking faster even as unintelligible words began to form on the breeze. Dark shadows swirled along the walls, avoiding the edges of his light. They were small and swift, haunting his every step with whispering laughter and wheezing sobs.